


Stalling

by alexiel



Series: The Stable Boy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, BDSM, Dom/sub, M/M, Master/Servant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiel/pseuds/alexiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored. John has work to do in the stables. Sherlock decides to "supervise".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stalling

John knew that, technically, between his morning tumbles and his evening fucks, his day was his to do with as he pleased. But, as Lady Eustancia was kind enough to refer to John as the stable boy and not ‘the catamite’ or ‘that whore I bought for my sons’, John felt that he owed her the work of one. Most days, this meant mucking out the stables, brushing down the horses, checking said horses for injuries, and, on occasion, helping Mr. Stamford the horse surgeon tend to the pregnant and the injured amongst the beasts.

Today, it meant cleaning and shining every piece of saddle and tack in the stables - a task that John would have approached cheerfully had Sherlock not been in one of his moods. Sherlock had decided that morning that he'd spend the day bored. More often than not, Sherlock spending the day bored meant John spending the day naked. Today, spending the day naked meant spending the morning with his hands behind his back, a solid gold ring around his cock, and cleaning off the tack (which Sherlock had kindly laid out in John's stall) by holding the wooden handle of the brush in his mouth. It made what should have been a simple task both awkward and difficult.

For one thing, John was forced to kneel awkwardly to even reach the tack, which he then had to worry about drooling on while he cleaned. Each bob of John's head, each movement he made to draw the brush against the leather, caused his engorged dick to rub against himself. (John had been wonderfully, painfully, hard for what felt like hours - and his dick, which was pressed between the top of his thighs and his stomach, actually chaffed a little from the constant friction.) For another, Sherlock wouldn't leave him alone.

Earlier, Sherlock had settled himself onto the soft, chaff mattress that they used each morning and stated his intent to "supervise" John's task. If he felt that John wasn't working hard enough, he'd bring his favorite riding crop down precisely on the crack of John's ass and, if John were working effectively, he'd lean forward and sooth his last strike with his tongue. If he breached John (who was inevitably wet from a combination of Sherlock's saliva and Mycroft's morning visit) with a finger or two every so often as well, then John just had to deal with it.

Like now.

Just now, Sherlock had two fingers buried inside of John and he rubbed them tauntingly near but not at the spot inside that made John gasp and buck. His hands, which were experienced and familiar with John's body, were sure and the feel of them was absolutely maddening. He stroked his fingers in time to the movement of John's head against the tack (which he watched carefully) while he ran his free hand soothingly up and down the outside of John's thigh.

"Such a good boy," Sherlock murmured, which wasn't fair at all because they were the same age and Sherlock hated being called boy. (While John, though he didn't exactly enjoy being spoken to like that, felt a mindless twitch of lust each time Sherlock used the word - spoke like he was talking to particularly obedient dog. ) "No wonder Mr. Lestrade likes you so much."

Sherlock ran his tongue down John's spine. John clenched his eyes shut and told himself to concentrate on his task.

"Do you think he'd like to put you to work like this?" And John barely bit back a groan at the idea. "Do you think he'd like to come watch us?" John flushed with embarrassment and heat at the suggestion. He felt himself twitch against his stomach. Immediately, he felt fingers in his hair pulling his head back. "I think you like that idea entirely too much."

John wasn't really listening to the words, didn't have any attention to spare for them. Like this, Sherlock was pressed flush against his back and John knew that Sherlock had to be hard. If he wriggled his ass just right he could -. "Did I say you could do that?" Sherlock snarled.

John went still.

"Good. We'll forget Mr. Lestrade at the moment; I'm sure he's busy. Now get back to work."

John bent back over, returning to the tack. This time, with Sherlock's erection pressing against him but, maddeningly, not into him.

It would be a long morning.


End file.
